Week 8: The Star Man

"Oi you, cyclist! Do you think cycling is a good idea? You should be at home. STAY INDOORS!".

I'm out for a ride in the Surrey countryside. It is warm and breezy, the sun is out and everything is bursting into life, including my hay fever. It's glorious out there in the country lanes under the now utterly silent Gatwick flightpath. The only man-made sound I hear in miles of riding is my old friend Tinnitus. And the gentle rusting of the the energy bar packets in my back pocket.

Better still, this has turned into a Naturalist's ride. Eh? No that doesn't mean I've pootling around Surrey's country lanes in the buff, it means I've seen lots of Nature. There's been ancient woodlands awash with bluebells and dancing butterflies, Wagtails and Blue Tits, a majestic Buzzard being mobbed by crows, and a beautiful Roe deer peering out of the woods at the strange, puffing creature in lycra. The pinnacle though; the Greater Spotted Gobshite in Capel near Dorking. He's standing on the corner of a junction, bouncing his lonely little football as I turn right passed him to head towards the-now-closed Box Hill. Clearly I merit his ire, as he stands there out in the open, not at home, bouncing his ball.

I've always wanted to be one of those sorts who has an immediate, acerbic, witty response in the face of unprovoked dumbness. Mustering my best, I yell back "It is allowed, you thick twat" and cycle on, thinking of all the clever things I could have said. But didn't.

Week eight. And what an action packed week its been! Ah I wish.

"B" (for Boy) and I have become Ibuprofen junkies. He is suffering with a terribly knotted back, probably because he adopts only three positions all day (in front of the playstation, hunched over the Big iPad or lolling about looking at his phone). My Cleaner's/Playstationer's/Cylindrical Object Grabber's elbow is the worst it's ever been, so much so that I've had to give up one of the three causes. "Gin" (the Mrs, so called because of her habit of cleaning her teeth with Tanqueray) has taken on all the cleaning duties, leaving me to Kill Baddies on the Playstation and continue to cook Overly Complex Dinners ("OCD").

A quick digression for those of you who have a vague interest in my OCD Compulsion. This week we've had couscous with tomatoes & onion and grilled fish in hawayej spices, mozzarella bocconcini followed by spaghetti vongole (clams to me and you), mushroom tongseng, pork in kecap manis & spice rice (Indonesian, innit), rare roast beef salad, asparagus & yuzu, and mackerel with pistachio & cardamon salsa (and herby rice). Next week we are living purely off of Freezer Surprise. The budget can't support the ambition.

Anyway, back to week eight, the the week of the Star Man.

Great excitement! Elon Musk's Star Link satellites, all 60 of them, were passing over Coulsdon, a spectacle not to be missed! I broke the news with 5 minutes to spare. "G" (for Girl) said they would "have to wait" because she was "finishing her latest commission" (she draws wonderful, stylised pictures for fun and publishes them on Tumblr. People are now asking her to do pics for them).

Hold on, we'll just call Elon and ask him to stall their orbits for a bit.

B was on a WhatsApp video call to some mates; "Boys, we are going out to see some satellites and you are coming with me!". He grabs his new spectacles (we realised he was short-sighted a few months ago, and his new glasses arrived by post a few weeks' back) and the three of us dash out into the back garden.

Now the thing about suburbia is Street Lights. And what annoying bastards they are when you are trying to see 60 of Elon's finest extra-terrestical vehicles. We are craning our necks peering into the gloom.

A voice comes from B's hand. "Mate, we can't see shit". And he is right. One satellite in 15 minutes is not up there as a roaring, astronomic success.

B though is standing there, dumbstruck. "My GOD! There are some many stars! I can see .... what's that one? That shape there?"

The Plough.

"I didn't know you could see all these little stars!"

Blimey, just how long hasn't he been able to see for?

Vision Express one, Parenting Skills, nil.

And so the week draws to a close. A special mention though for this week's "Clap for Carers". I happened to be out watering the front garden when the pot banging, car-horn hooting, firework releasing and clapping cacophony started. With perfect timing G chose to step outside to play this week's version of Guess Which Celebrity I Am Made Up As?. She had a whitened face, rouged lips and a little trilby hat on. I dunno, someone from that Japanese Anime stuff you like - that girl "Horry" I think her name is?

Nope, try again? Err, who is ghost white and wears a hat? I give up.

Michael Jackson.

She is dressed up as Michael Jackson. Minus the monkey. And we are "clapping for carers". The irony isn't lost on me. Professionally administered painkiller overdose anyone?

And with that we enter week 9. I wonder what wonderments and revelations the week will bring?

Love & elbow grease, Mr H